


Not Quite Star-Crossed

by MusicalChick13



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Hurt/Comfort, Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:57:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalChick13/pseuds/MusicalChick13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She should know better than to ask for answers. When your default answer to everything is simply the word, “Spoilers!” you stop expecting anyone to respond to your questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Star-Crossed

**Author's Note:**

> The Christmas special broke me. I am broken. I will never be okay again.

Twenty-four years is an awfully long time.

 

A third of the average human lifespan on Earth in first world countries. Even more than that in places that are far less fortunate.

 

So River Song suspects she should make an effort to actually _enjoy_ that time.

 

But when you’ve had an emotionally turbulent childhood leading to deep-seated insecurities later in life, that’s rather difficult.

 

Which is why she finds herself, for the tenth night in a row (in Earth time, anyway) staring forlornly at Darillium’s ethereal landscape, her shoulder blades drawn together in a tense mockery of a kiss.

 

The thought that she should go back inside and get some sleep briefly flits across her exhausted mind, but her brain INSISTS on pushing it aside in favor of meticulously combing through every exchange between herself and her husband that occurred during the adventure that landed them here, wishing she could be the fun-loving, secure woman everyone seems to want to think she is.

 

She hears a soft footfall behind her, one she recognizes immediately. A familiar shape looms next to her, and she feels an equally soft hand rest on her shoulder, but instead of making her feel relaxed or safe like it normally does (well, like it SHOULD, anyway), it only makes the knot in her back double in intensity.

 

She fixes her gaze on the towers. Whatever conversation he wants to have now, she can’t do it.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

She wants to lie. She comes up with a number of responses to placate him: I miss my parents, I’m not used to the time changes on this planet, I think that the tea we had was infused with a strange caffeine hybrid that does weird things to my biology, my conditioning keeps forcing me to thoroughly plan escape routes in case something goes wrong...All of which are…not _lies_ , exactly, but not the real root of the problem.

 

But she is so tired. Of keeping secrets, of thinking and re-thinking everything, of pushing down her sadness for fear of being as weak and pathetic as Madam Kovarian always assumed she was.

 

“I’m never okay.”

 

“Well, aren’t we a pair.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“The Never Okay. We could form our own sub-species.”

 

“Well, technically, we wouldn’t be a part of the same scientific classification, seeing as I’m mostly human with an extended life span and Time Lady perks and you-“

 

“You’re deflecting, River.”

 

“So are you.”

 

“I’m told dark humor helps. In…emotionally sensitive situations. My apologies.”

 

“It’s nothing,” she says, turning over her shoulder and heading back inside, hoping that she can prevent herself from sobbing long enough to make it to the TARDIS kitchens and bury herself in a pint of Ictarthian ice cream.

 

“River, your muscles feel like a brick wall. It’s not nothing.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, a bit too cavalierly.

 

“River,” he intones softly, as if her name itself is fragile.

 

_Aaaaand…there goes any hope of not sobbing._

She simply shakes her head, hoping that he’ll just let her go if he doesn’t manage to see what a pathetic state she’s worked herself into. That he won’t start to figure out the real reason why she’s starving herself of sleep for the tenth consecutive night.

 

“You said you don’t think I give a damn about you. How am I supposed to _if you won’t let me_?”

 

She wants to let it go. She wants to stop second-guessing everything and listening to that stupid part of her brain that believes any feeling other than hyper-focused determination is useless. She wants to brush him off so she can escape this interrogation and be _anywhere_ else.

 

She steels herself long enough to choke back a sob and turn around. “It doesn’t…” she begins, but she can’t get the words out. Because it does matter. So very, very much.

 

And she is so, so very tired.

 

She feels her fists ball up at her sides, sees his weight shift as if he’s about to take a step forward before deciding against it and realigning himself.

 

She looks at him.

 

He stares, unmoving, unblinking.

 

It’s not what’s really weighing on her mind, but she can start small. Maybe that would be enough for him to leave her to drown her sorrows in sugary food and a glass of wine. Or five.

 

“When we were talking about the Towers, you said it would always…when I needed it…it…would be there.” It’s far from eloquent, but it’s the best she can manage without weeping openly.

 

“I did.”

 

“We weren’t really talking about the monolith, were we?”

 

“No.”

 

“What if I always need you?”

 

He gives her the smallest of wry smiles and says, “Well, one psychopath per TARDIS, right?”

 

_Damn him_.

 

She should know better than to ask for answers. When your default answer to everything is simply the word, “Spoilers!” you stop expecting anyone to respond to your questions.

 

But it’s been two hundred years of emotional repression, and this is her tenth night of mulling over the same hour of her life again and again and _again_ , so she finds herself involuntarily asking, with tears threatening to burst the hastily-constructed mental dam she’s erected against them,

 

“Is that really what you think of me?”

 

“I could ask you the same thing.”

 

“I’m told dark humor helps in emotionally sensitive situations,” she replies. The expression he throws back at her is situated somewhere between _you’re a bloody wonder_ and _I’m going to fucking murder you_. “You’d just lost your best friends.”

 

“And you’d just lost your family.”

 

“You never answered my question; who’s deflecting now?” She turns, takes two more strides, and is now at the TARDIS doors.

 

“If I really thought that, I’d have given up on you in Berlin, all those years ago.”

 

She should really just leave. She should really just run past the threshold and hide in the nearest room with a lockable door and curl up into a fetal position until her body gives up and finally slips into unconsciousness.

 

“Maybe you should have,” she whispers.

 

She hears a hitch of breath. “You don’t get to say that,” he asserts through gritted teeth.

 

She whirls around to face him, the angry, frightened girl in the spacesuit she thought she’d left behind decades ago rearing her head full force. “I am an independent person with a mind of my own, and you _certainly_ don’t have to right to tell me what I do and don’t get to say, because believe it or not, Doctor, I ACTUALLY know myself better than you do.”

 

A million emotions flicker across his face, all equally unreadable.

 

“Do you remember what I said to you? Just before you healed me?”

 

_Of course she does_.

 

“What if I don’t?”

 

“In any case, it’s just as true now.”

 

_Damn him twice_.

 

She wants to believe him. More than she’s ever wanted anything in the entire universe, she wants to believe him. Believe that the rules don’t apply right now. But she’s old and broken and cynical and so, so tired.

 

“Yeah, well, Rule One,” she practically spits back.

 

“For someone who claims to know me so well, you’re doing a shit job of proving it, if _that’s_ what you’re accusing me of.”

 

_Don’t cry, do **not** cry, DON’TYOU **DARE** FUCKINGCRY_

 

“Oh, _come on_ , Doctor. Reverse timelines? Murder attempts? An emotionally repressed, trigger-happy woman with more emotional baggage than a telenovela heroine about to go on vacation? Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?”

 

Because it _is_ ridiculous. This whole thing is ridiculous.

 

_So much for not-forever-happily-ever-after_.

“So you know _me_ better than I do, too, now, is that it?”

 

“You’re not my _mum_ , who literally gave up EVERYTHING just for the tiniest _chance_ to see her husband again. Or my dad, who lived as a plastic guardsman for two millennia just to keep her safe. You’re not some pesky, bull-headed _human_.”

 

“No, I’m just a pesky, bull-headed Time Lord.”

 

_You’re with the person you love at a place you’ve always wanted to visit. Somehow, you managed to marry him. You got what you wanted. Just tell him not to worry about it and brush it off like you’ve been doing for the last two hundred years. Your feelings are not his business, and they definitely shouldn’t be yours._

 

But all pretense has been abandoned at this point, and the mental dam has burst. Every single ounce of vulnerability is spilling out past it, threatening to drown both of them.

 

“Well, we already established that we _weren’t_ talking about the monolith, and you said that I couldn’t expect _it_ to love me back, so give me _ONE GOOD REASON_ why anything you _ever_ claim to have felt for me applies now!!”

 

The expression on his face makes him look as broken as she feels.

 

“River, I’m a daft old man. Do you really think I figured out right away that you were talking about me? After your breakdown on the ship, I didn’t think there was _anything_ I could say to change your mind. I told you what I thought you had the best possibility of understanding. I told you the only thing that I thought had a chance of getting through to you.”

 

“And why the _Hell_ should I believe _you_?”

 

“Because I’m staying in one place with you, willingly, for twenty-four years.”

 

“That could mean anything.”

 

“I gave you a sonic screwdriver.”  


“Presumably, to keep our timelines on track because you saw me use one later in my life.”

 

“River, I fucking _MARRIED_ you. Not because it was an accident, not to prove you weren’t a Zygon, not to get information from you. Because I _chose to_.”

 

“Other people have gotten married for less. That doesn’t prove anything. Try again.”

 

There it is. It’s all out in the open, now. Maybe she should just leave. There’s probably a stray vortex manipulator lying around somewhere. Or she could likely persuade someone to give her a lift. He doesn’t need this right now, and neither should she.

 

“What do you _WANT_ River?!”

 

“THE TRUTH!!!! Please, just once, Doctor. TELL. ME. THE. TRUTH.”

 

She’s never begged before. Not like this. Not for herself.

 

It feels horrible.

 

She feels a fresh onslaught of tears wash down her face, and she’s going to need a new dress if this keeps up because salt does _not_ react well with the chemicals in her instant outfit spray.

 

_That’s the last time she buys the Extra-Strength kind. Greater fabric integrity, my ass_.

 

The Doctor’s face screws itself up into an amalgamation of anger, sadness, and righteous indignation before relaxing into something that looks suspiciously like the tenderness River refuses to believe she deserves.

 

“River…may I try something?”

 

“Have at it.”

 

He closes the distance between them and touches his fingers to her temples before bringing their foreheads together. River feels something like a small electric shock as he opens a channel into the most terrifying and vulnerable of places-his mind.

 

She sees swirls of hundreds of thousands of memories, most of which she doubts he remembers he still has. And among them are closed doors and shut boxes, housing ever-dangerous secrets and foreknowledge.

 

Despite her psychopathic curiosity and love of breaking the rules, it never even crosses her mind to open any of them.

 

There are infinite mixes of colors, shapes, sounds both familiar and foreign, an overpowering assault of smells and tastes, creating a mindscape that intertwines with hers in a way far more intimate than anything she’s ever experienced.

 

And there are pulses of thought and waves upon waves of a nameless, unfathomable _feeling_. Something dark and dangerous and sacred that is everything she feels for him and more.

 

She gasps like the idiot mostly-human she is, and breaks the connection, overwhelmed.

 

“Do you understand, now?” He asks.

 

And she throws her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. After a brief second of surprised tension, she feels his arms encircle her back and a smile against the top of her head.

 

They stay like that for some nameless amount of time before River looks up and says, “Jycksan.”

 

“What?”

 

“You asked me what alphabet I’d use when removing bodily organs.”

 

And he laughs, and River thinks he might be just as screwed up as she is.

 

“Oh, of all the opening lines I could have used.”

 

And then she starts laughing too.

 

They’re idiots. Both of them.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

 

“So am I,” she responds.

 

A soft melody graces the air, hauntingly blissful.

 

The Doctor moves suddenly, grasping her hands and putting them on his shoulders before wrapping his arms around her waist.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“ _I_ am going to dance with my wife.”

 

And River lays her head back on his chest while he attempts to harmonize (attempts being the operative word) with the Towers.

 

They sway for a bit, and he launches her into a spin with far more finesse than he harmonizes with, and River smiles for the first time in almost two weeks.

 

_She is **definitely**_ _sleeping well tonight._

 


End file.
